Somewhere In Time
by Lara B. Caine
Summary: One hundred years of haunted history plague the residents of a Peachtree Street mansion. Can one teacher's quest to discover her own family's history alter the events of the past?
1. The Ghosts of Peachtree Street

**Chapter 1. **_The Ghosts of Peachtree Street _

The death certificate, when Mom and I finally found it, gave the time of her death as 11:58 p.m., September 21, 1911.

100 years she had been dead; ironically, her centennial death day fell in the same year as the Civil War sesquicentennial. Of course, that shouldn't be too surprising. She lived though the Civil War, after all. I'm sure that there are innumerable families throughout the country that can make the same claim.

My great-great-great grandmother was sixty-six years old when she died. The mother of five children total, she had buried three before she herself passed away, along with three husbands. But after that, we know little else about her. Our family, like many others, is particularly proud of its history; in fact, we're so proud that we have an entire book written to encompass all of our ancestors' dirty laundry. It never fails to amuse me that what would have made them writhe in agony to imagine publicly disclosed causes their descendents' sides to split in laughter. If only the stories were true. But they are nothing if not amusing - the ones featuring my great-great-great grandmother in particular. She must have been an extraordinary lady, because we're still talking about her. Even today, a hundred years after her death to the day, we still bandy about the name of Scarlett O'Hara Butler.

I've been asked before if I've always known that I wanted to teach eighth grade history, and my answer has consistently been yes. Open further inquiries, I give the standard reasons for choosing one's profession, for instance, that I feel called to teach, that I enjoy giving young people interesting food for thought as they mature into young adults - little caterpillars midway through their journey towards butterfly-dom. All those reasons are valid, absolutely. But I must admit, I do what I do because of Scarlett…why, you ask? Well, because it is my firm contention that someone whose life has been the topic of endless discussion of every single Christmas and birthday is worthy of serious study. So I went to college at Emory in Atlanta and spent my weekends poking around my grandma's big old house on Peachtree Street searching for anything and everything that could be considered valid historiographical research. Nothing. I can't even show a picture of her to my eighth grade class because (again, according to family legend) she didn't allow anyone to photograph her after she hit thirty. I hit thirty two weeks ago, and some days, I know exactly how she felt.

But back to the matter at hand - I have volumes of oral tradition at my disposal, but no hard facts. I have names on a page, but no blurbs, no archived facebook statuses I can go back and peruse. I only have the word of my eighty-seven year old grandma who refuses to remodel her house because Grandma Scarlett wouldn't like it.

Did I mention that Scarlett haunts the house and grounds?

Well, her, and her third husband, and her lover that he allegedly shot in the foyer, and of course her second husband who supposedly died under mysterious circumstances - I'm not sure how he got there, since it wasn't his house, but I digress - and then of course there's the full bodied apparition of a little girl in a blue velvet dress that my grandma swears used to torment her as a child. She used to tell us that she began seeing her after her father died. Him I know about, Charles Wade Hamilton, Jr., Atlanta based real-estate tycoon. We actually had a working plantation in our family, fully restored by Charles Wade Sr. and fully functional until Charles Wade Jr. sublet it and sold it off, acre by acre. I've driven up to Clayton County with Mom and Grandma twice. These days the land that was the grand plantation is a lovely subdivision called Tara Oaks, and right smack in between two big houses rest our people. Sixteen graves in all, the headstones dating back to 1864. It was all I could do to get the Georgia Historical Society to chip in on a proper fence to prevent the graves from being vandalized by the neighborhood kids.

But anyway, back to Charles Wade, Jr. According to the family tradition, of which you already know my reservations, Charles Wade, Jr. was the third in a line of bitter and angry men, each a little worse than the other. Wade Hampton Hamilton, his grandfather, born 1862, was the first. He supposedly spent some time in the State Pen for assaulting his stepfather with a buggy whip. Now, I can't find the records for that incident, but I do know a little about the stepfather that might have warranted such an assault.

According to the police report - you wouldn't believe how many hours at the State Archives it took to dig it up - a Mr. Ashley Wilkes was called to the home of his longtime friend and husband to his sister-in-law (my great-great-great grandma, to be exact), to discuss a matter "of great importance". The police noted that Mr. Wilkes's son and co-owner of their lumber business told them that his father decided to call on the suspect that very night, saying "I'd better go see what he wants. He has been so very despondent lately and may require a favor of me."

Its not known what sort of conversation the two men had or in what manner Mr. Wilkes was received, but several witnesses passing by moments prior to the shooting heard calm talking, even laughter between the two gentlemen and one woman (from the report, she seems like some sort of prostitute) who saw the two conversing civilly through her open parlor door. Wilkes was standing on the piazza poised to leave and Scarlett's husband, a Rhett Butler, was sitting, obviously relaxed.

According to grandma, and she got her information from the two Charles Wades and them from Wade Hampton, that Wilkes had said goodbye and then turned to leave. Butler had stopped him and he turned around and without a moment's notice, he pulled the trigger and Wilkes's jugular vein was severed instantly. Death was swift, and Ashley Wilkes breathed his last with his accuser's name on his lips, and now his restless spirit walks aimlessly around the mansion in which he was slain. And that's all she wrote…

Well, not quite. If you recall the second husband I mentioned, the one who supposedly haunts Grandma's house too - it's said that Butler killed him as well, under the guise of a Klan raid. In an interesting turn of events, it appears that our Mr. Butler was passionately in love with Scarlett before he became Husband Number Three, and shot Husband Number Two in cold blood, freeing her. All this time (supposedly) she's in love with said Ashley Wilkes. Well, Butler knew that, apparently, and intended to kill him that night, but conscience kicked in and he let him off with a flesh wound.

Ah…families. There are more, I'm sure, but the murders are always the ones I select to tell my students around Halloween. You know thirteen and fourteen year olds, anything with a little blood and guts!

There are lots of suicides too, in the Peachtree house. Wade Hampton, his son Charles Wade, Sr., and his son, Charles Wade, Jr. for starters. And then there's the story about Wade Hampton's sister allegedly being frightened to death by the apparition of her dead father. Strange, strange.

And Grandma still swears by her story of the little girl. She's about four and is wearing blue velvet. Grandma started seeing her when she (Grandma) was eleven. Her own father had just died by his own hand. We know that he swallowed a large quantity of opium and self-inflicted the wounds that would cause his death with a razor.

Cheery? Cheery.

It's a beautiful early fall day in Atlanta as I jump into my '97 Corolla and head to Grandma's. Speaking of despondent, she's been despondent for thirty years, since Grandpa died and left her alone in that God-awful house that seems to be the boiling pot of our family's misery over the past hundred plus years. I gave up on figuring out its secrets long ago - it can keep them. I just want to see Grandma.

Later, as I'm writing this, I'll remember that I was delayed in my trip by Julia Jeffries's mom, who wanted to talk to me about a room parent meeting. I'll send you an email, I say, smiling.

I get into the car and begin to drive, recalling with pleasure my students' faces as I reenact the murder of Ashley Wilkes. That ought to be a country ballad. The Murder of Ashley Wilkes. It would be heavy on steel guitar and mandolin.

Grandma's house is the oldest on the street. It's a Swiss-style chalet that has undergone very little renovation since it's completion in 1869. It was in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution a few years ago, when it was recognized as the oldest house in its district. My diminutive little Grandma smiled proudly for the paper. The caption underneath was short and sweet: "Octogenarian Melanie Hamilton Crouch, daughter of real estate baron Charles Wade Hamilton, Jr. stands before the 1869 mansion she has lived in her entire life. The house has remained in the Hamilton family since its construction nearly a century ago."

That's all. Short and sweet, no mention of ghosts or haunting or murders. For all the revenue gleaned by haunted houses and the like, the mention of ghosts or their ilk in serious conversation tends to ignite some primitive dread within us. Myself, I'm a historian. I deal with old things all the time. You can call it residual energy or ghosts or the beyond - makes no difference. Is my great-great-great grandmother walking around her house? Let me spare you the anxiety of wondering: I think not.

Or so I did on that day.

I knocked on the gigantic door (we always called it the Frankenstein door when we were kids) and was greeted by Marta, a big Hispanic lady that sits with Grandma and keeps her company.

Grandma is sitting in the parlor, which would be completely decorated according to nineteenth century standards if not for the 52 inch plasma television. I'm not going to lie, it spoils the effect somewhat.

"Victoria!" she greets me, standing up with the help of her cane. The cane is a new addition; it just came last year.

"Grandma!" I hug her. She's lost weight. Oh boy - I need to start coming more often.

"I was just finishing this special about Lincoln. You know that quote, you know Victoria, the one that that man started after his death?"

I do know.

"'Now he belongs to the ages?'"

"That's the one. Well, originally, it was, 'Now he belongs to the _angels_!' Can you imagine that, Victoria?"

Oh the what-ifs of history.

"That would spoil it, wouldn't it, Grandma?"

"Indeed." She puts her head close to mine and whispers conspiratorially. "Marta thinks that I'm crazy."

"What? Grandma! She thinks no such thing."

"She does so, Victoria. I saw Bonnie again last night. You know, you know who I mean, don't you?"

Bonnie is the name she's assigned to the little girl in the blue dress.

"I know, Grandma."

"She wants me to follow her. I told her that it was quite impossible. But she runs out toward the carriage house and then, poof, she's gone. I wish that you would play with her, dear. You're much closer to her age than I!"

"I'm thirty, Grandma," I remind the old dear. "I think I'm a little too old to play with Bonnie too."

"Tut tut," she says. "You think I'm crazy too, don't you?"

"Not at all, Grandma-"

"I want you to walk out to that garden and see if you don't see her. She's there plain as day, all the time. Marta doesn't see her because she's not family. Bonnie only shows herself to our people."

I humor the old gal, but I'm thinking Mom may be right about her needing to go to a home sooner rather than later.

I push the squeaking gate open and walk into Grandma's Japanese garden, the other relatively 'modern' feature of the house. This is ridiculous, I think to myself. Absolutely bonkers. I'm an Emory graduate and a teacher of history, I'm not my silly little grandma who is perpetually lonely and delights over the nocturnal visits by the apparition of a little girl who delights in rocking particular chairs and stopping the mantle clock.

But then I saw her.

Out of the corner of my eye, she was standing there. But she wasn't a little girl.

She was very much a woman, wearing a white nightgown, her black hair brushing her shoulders.

Her eyes widened as she noted my presence.

"Who are you?" I call out.

She flees toward the carriage house and I follow her. She's not getting away that easy! Besides, I need an explanation. My feet seem to know the path, though I never venture out of the main house and out back. It creeped me out as a child, and for good reason, apparently!

But I press on, following the nightgown until she disappears into the carriage house. I enter the decaying building, weary of spiders or any other creepy crawlers. I see nothing. She's gone.

I begin to laugh. I'm as bad as Grandma.

**. . . **

Sounds of girlish laughter on a warm September day awakened Scarlett as she lay napping away the pleasant afternoon. She jerked upright in the big bed as she placed a hand protectively on her stomach, her condition only barely noticeable.

"Rhett!" she cried. "I had the dream again."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Dear Readers All, I've been dying to do a GWTW story for the Halloween season for eons. The RBA is slow going, but its going, I promise. The idea for this fic has been in my mind forever, and I would LOVE to hear what you guys think. Happy Fall! <strong>

***9/22: Thank you, A. Nonymous. I thought that looked off. I fixed the date, so it should compute now! **


	2. The Carriage House

**Chapter 2. **_The Carriage House_

The phone rang.

I rolled over in bed and checked the digital clock on my nightstand. 7:32 a.m.

The phone rang again.

"Hello?" I answer, my voice drowsy and filled (I hope) with annoyance at being awoken so early on a Saturday.

"Victoria."

"Nate. What do you want?"

Nate Andrews. He went to college with me and teaches at the high school. We've also dated off and on over the past six years, by the by.

"Sorry to call so early, babe, but you've got to get over to the State Archives building right now. I mean it, right now."

"What have you found now, one of Governor Bullock's old receipts from a madam?" Nate is obsessed with Governor Rufus Bullock, by the by.

"Not exactly. Just come down here. You'll be glad you did. Come on…I'll buy you a Starbucks…"

"You know, you're the only man on the entire planet who bribes his girlfriend with coffee to come down to the State Archives. You're crazy, you know that?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, just hurry."

"Alright."

I hang up the phone and I drag myself out of bed, extricating Mackenzie, my annoyed looking Scottish terrier, from her spot underneath the covers.

"Go outside," I say, indicating that she should use the dog door I had installed for her and do her business accordingly. She looks up at me from underneath thick bushy brows and I swear she raises one. If she could talk, she'd be saying - _make me_.

I pick her up and send her out, fix her breakfast and take a quick shower. Toweling dry my thick hair, I throw some mousse in it and apply a quick layer of foundation and some mascara. No point in bothering with contacts, I think, not for the Archives, so on go the glasses. I examine my reflection in the mirror. Brownish shoulder length curls. Big brown eyes with naturally long lashes - a common feature in my family. I inherited Mom's slim build - thank God - though I might have killed at one point for my dad's sister's boobs, I'm grateful not to have the big hips.

Mackenzie has finished her breakfast and is looking expectantly up at me for more. "You've had enough." I tell her. "You're getting fat."

She glares at me in her Scottish way.

"Just kidding," I say as she trots back off toward the bedroom.

She's great company, Kenzie is…not that I'm lonely. But it is sort of ironic that Nate can't come over to my house because he's deathly allergic to dogs. I must say though, after six years of his noncommittal stance on dating, I'm glad that I have the dog.

The archives aren't far; and of course there's a Starbucks on the corner of the same street. Nate is outside, coffee in hand, presumably holding my pumpkin spice latte.

"Go and get whatever you want," he says as I approach him; he's holding a five dollar bill in his hand. "I already got mine. Hurry though."

"No worries; I've got it."

So much for him being thoughtful.

I order quickly and sit down at the outside table next to him. He's ridiculously good-looking, in that all-American, football player, boy-next-door kind of way. Wavy blonde hair, blue eyes…you know, a catch. But he loves old things about as much as I do, so I tell myself that our common interests are what drive the relationship. Lord knows, nothing else would!

"So, what's up?" I inquire.

"Well, remember when I laughed about you seeing the ghost in your Grandma's carriage house?"

"Yes I do. Don't tell me you've seen one in the archives building?"

"Fat chance. No, my feelings about ghosts haven't changed since our conversation Wednesday night…but I have found something that you'll be totally psyched over."

"Hit me."

He pulls out a legal pad out of his man purse. (He calls it a briefcase).

"So, your great-great-great grandmother, Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler. Born 1845, died 1911, the grand-dame of Atlanta society…"

"Right, I know who you're talking about."

"Okay, so. Remember how we've always thought privately that she died in the influenza epidemic that hit the city?"

"Yes-"

"Alright. Well, right here is the proof that she was admitted to Saint Joseph's hospital complaining of head and neck pain, vomiting, diarrhea, manic behavior… Symptoms that the doctor on call never suspected could be the result of foul play, merely the symptoms of a dying old woman, right? But see here, patient discharged, September 21, 1911, 1:24 p.m.? Did she suddenly get better?"

"She died that night. But seriously, Nate, couldn't those symptoms be consistent with the flu?"

"I would agree completely, my dear, if her husband hadn't died the previous year. Let's see, Rhett Kinnicutt Butler, died at age 82. Cerebral apoplexy. Cause, unknown."

"I still don't understand."

"Look at the date."

He pushes the legal pad in front of me.

_Butler, Rhett Kinnicutt etat. 82. DOD: 21 Sept. 1910. TOD: 11:58 p.m._

"Where did you find that information? We've looked all over for years, all over. Seriously, it was like Rhett Butler vanished into thin air after the Ashley Wilkes murder."

"Glad you brought that up. I'm getting there…okay, so I did something without your permission. Promise you won't be mad? Well, I went over to your grandma's with a flashlight last night. I snooped around that carriage house a little."

"What! Why didn't you call me?"

"Because I know how neurotic you are when I hone in on your research projects. But it got me thinking about us spending that summer two years ago looking through the attic and not finding anything of value and I remembered that the carriage house would have storage space. So I pried open one of the boards and voila - I found this."

My heart was pounding as he pulled out a picture. A family picture. I had never seen it before, but I had a reasonable idea of who it could be.

An older woman, late sixties or so, seated next to her smiling husband. I recognized Charles Wade, Sr. instantly. Even as a boy, he had really precious dimples that were still apparent in the photographs I'd seen of him as an old man. The man behind him had to be his father, Wade Hampton. Two women standing - one had to be Ella Kennedy and the other had to be Wade Hampton's wife, Lenora Langston Hamilton. There were two other men and another woman standing behind the older couple, but I didn't recognize them.

"Did you date this?"

"1909."

"But where did you find it?"

"It literally fell at my feet."

"But it's in perfect condition. Its impossible, I mean, we've had so much rain. Weeks and years of rain and - remember the fire in 1969? You'd think that this would have been smoke damaged to say the least."

"If you think the picture is cool, look at the back." He's grinning like a Cheshire cat.

It was a man's scrawl, hastily written in minuscule penmanship. And yet clear as day, I could see where names had been inscribed then crossed out.

_Scarlett Butler_

_Rhett Butler_

_Wade Hamilton_

_Lenora Hamilton_

_C.W. Hamilton_

_Bonnie Butler_

_Gerald Butler_

_R.K. Butler, Jr._

"Who are they? There were only two surviving children. Eugenie Victoria died at age four and then there were two infant boys. They didn't have names, according to our family history. Or-I'll do better than that, I have the Journal-Constitution obituary for E.V."

"I thought you'd say that. I was going to say that I'd found that article. But all that to say, you have family members that you don't even know about."

"You're getting a little ahead of yourself, aren't you, Sherlock? They could be Butler cousins for all you know."

"They could be, that's true. Okay, but why then, Oh Skeptic, did Wade Hampton Hamilton, C.W. Hamilton, Jr., and your grandfather Barry Crouch all die on September 21st?"

"Coincidence?"

"Murder. Poison, I would argue."

"Suicide on the first two, and my grandpa died from a brain hemorrhage"

"Cerebral apoplexy?"

"I don't know! But seriously, what does all this have to do with poison?"

"Because they all had similar symptoms. Delusions, irrational behavior, hallucinations. All of them - days before their deaths. That takes us back to Miss Scarlett."

"I'm all ears."

"I can buy the head and neck pain as flu symptoms, but seriously, vomiting, diarrhea? Delusions?"

"So, let me get this straight - you think that there was a mass conspiracy to wipe out my grandma's entire family … Nate, you've lost it."

"So on to your ghost…"

"Oh please tell me; I'm dying of curiosity, pardon the pun. How does my ghost fit into the equation?"

"Your ghost showed up on September 21. Along with the picture. I think someone's trying to carry on the tradition."

"By killing someone on the 21st? Whom?"

"Your grandma is the last Hamilton. Makes sense, doesn't it? Also, it's the hundredth anniversary of Scarlett's death, you reminded me."

"I think you're crazy."

"Well, I refuse to buy your ghost theory. So here you are; here's the evidence. I think we should go to the police."

"You're insane. Seriously." I stand up, sick of the conversation as well as shaken by it.

My cell phone rings. Civil War museum. My mother, the director.

"Hello?"

"Victoria, its Mother. I need you to go over to Grandma's house and check on her, she's been on the phone with your father for two hours. She says that one of the portraits flew off the wall last night, and there was a lit cigar in her bedroom. Please go over there and see what's happening. I've got tours all morning and I don't know what to do with her."

"Alright Mom. I'll go right now." I hang up. "I think our problem is paranormal," I snap at Nate, then hurry to my car.

"Okay," he says, "don't come crying to me if there's an ax murderer in the carriage house."

I drive down the road, thinking that I can really pick them. He's nuts. He's really nuts. But look at me - thirty years old, chasing after ghosts of hundred years dead relatives. Mature, Vicky, real mature.

Grandma is sitting on the front steps wringing her hands when I pull up.

"Grandma!" I call. "Grandma! What's the matter, what's happening?"

"Victoria!" she wrapped her arms around me. "Oh my dear. I'm so glad to see someone real."

"What's going on, Grandma?"

"I must be losing my mind!" she cried. "I must be. But yet, I know it was real."

"What happened?" I ask gently.

"I think that I was in 1869 last night." Grandma said this in utter seriousness.

"Okay…" I reply.

"I woke up because I thought that I heard noises from downstairs. And I walked down the staircase. And something, Victoria, something compelled me to go outside. And I kept walking until I reached the carriage house. And I walked inside of it and - I swear Victoria, that was it and I opened my eyes and I was back at the house - but there was a woman in the backyard, with a small boy and a baby in a pram. She's about your age, if I had to guess. And she said to me, I've been dreaming about you. And I ran, Victoria, for my life. It's enough to make me understand why my father…" she put a hand over her mouth as she began to sob. "…why he did what he did."

"Did he talk about visits like that, Grandma?"

"He used to say that he witnessed a murder. He loved the drink though, Father did. And I assumed that he was intoxicated - but perhaps he was just crazy - and perhaps I am as well?"

"No, Grandma. No." I hug her tight. "You aren't crazy. I saw her too. At least, I imagine its her. I want you to come stay at my place for a couple days…you know, just to have a change of scenery."

"Very well," she nodded, "if I wouldn't put you out -"

"Not at all; I love the company. It's just me and the Scottish girl, after all."

She smiles, reassured that she has my support, at least, and starts the trip upstairs to grab a change of clothes. I think she's glad to get out. I wonder why I haven't thought of it before. She could have been taking care of Kenzie and I could have been with Nate…

"I'm just going to check out that carriage house right quick, Grandma," I call from the front porch. She can't hear me - she's upstairs.

I walk across the lawn and into the old building, closing the door behind me. Its truly dank and decrepit inside; there's no electric lighting, nor a window. We could totally call it haunted and charge admission. I see where Nate's been messing with the ceiling, there's a big panel of wood on the floor. I stick my hand up through the hole.

Nothing.

Perhaps we're all crazy in my family.

I fumble around for the door, thinking that this has all been a gigantic waste of my Saturday morning. I open it slowly, thinking for a moment about what Grandma said.

Again, nothing unusual. I'm looking at the back of the house.

"Scarlett!" a voice calls.

Scarlett?

"Scarlett?" it calls again.

I'm not Scarlett, I think. This is too weird.

A man emerges from behind the stable, which is emitting the distinct odor of hay and livestock.

"Scarlett, I thought that I - wait a minute, who the hell are you?"

"Victoria Bartlett," I stick out a hand dumbly.

"What the hell are you doing on my property?"

"Your property?"

"Yes, mine. This house belongs to me, Rhett Butler. Do you need something, Victoria Bartlett?"

I need to go home. This is absolutely, totally, unbelievably bizarre.

"Are you…lost? Could I send for someone for you?" he asks a little more kindly.

"Sure," I mutter. "Sure, let me see if I have service."

Shit. I left my phone on the porch. No contact with my world. He's looking over my jeans and t-shirt like I've got two heads.

"Mr. Butler? It appears that I am lost, but at the moment I am in need of nothing more than a stiff drink, can you service me?"

He looked torn between a desire to laugh uproariously and run away in fear. Luckily, he chose the former.

"Come on in," he says, turning around and heading toward the house, indicating that I should follow him.

Nate is never, ever, ever, ever going to believe me. But I'm going to play along until I wake up again…regardless, I'll be damned if I don't take this opportunity to figure out all our little family secrets.


	3. The Portal

**Chapter 3:** _The Portal_

He's not at all what I expected him to look like. I had in my head a picture of Humphrey Bogart or Clark Gable or one of those other man's men from the Golden Age of Hollywood. He reminds me instead of my former boss, Peter di Franco. There should be an all-encompassing adjective to describe the quintessential New Yorker - you know, the broad shoulders, swarthy complexion, kissable lips, the obsession with the Yankees (the baseball variety), who are the best and will always be the best. Does that translate? Yeah, take away the Charleston drawl, fast forward a hundred years, and Rhett would feel right at home in the Bronx.

I follow him doggedly up to the front porch, politely silent as he threw a glance over his shoulder to make certain that I was still there. He laughs and rubs his eyes hard as he stops dead in his tracks.

"You're still here, are you?"

"Yeah, I guess I am." I shrug.

"You are not then, I presume, a figment of my imagination?"

"That, I can assure you I am not. Besides, Rhett - I can call you Rhett, can't I? Besides, Rhett, how many figments of your imagination invite themselves in for a drink?"

He smirks. "You would be surprised."

Ah. He's flirting with me. Bastard. I see that wedding ring.

"But as delightfully charming as you are, Miss, I must now ask you to leave. You see, my wife is with child, and your presence in my home might appear to be slightly untoward, if you catch my meaning."

"Sure, sure, I understand."

God, he's good looking. But he's not my type - that's why Peter and I didn't work out. New Yorkers are always too full of themselves. Surely though, he's not serious. Surely he'll invite me in. This is like - the coolest thing that could ever happen to a historian.

What does he do? He shuts the door in my face.

"Thanks for nothing." I roll my eyes. If I was properly dressed (you know, by their standards), I'd be able to get inside that house and learn all sorts of things. There had to be something about the carriage house, though, some sort of pathway…I retraced my steps and returned to the building. It was older than the rest of the house. It probably dated back before the war. I'd not noticed that before. Who knew what kind of voodoo permeated these walls?

"'Scuse me?"

A small boy, around seven or eight, had appeared behind me, his face a picture of fright. His cheeks are so hollow, he almost looks malnourished. He's so pale, so weedy, like a plant that's been left in the dark. You know the look, I presume - nearly dead.

"Hey there!" I say, attempting cheerfulness. "How's it going?"

"Why are you going in there?" he whispers.

"Well, I'm going home, if you must know, little guy…well, at least I think I am."

"Do you live in Uncle Rhett's carriage house?"

I shake my head, not wanting to confuse him.

"No, but I think I can go home this way. Do you live here with your Uncle Rhett?"

He nods his head.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Wade," he answers, his voice barely audible.

"Hi there, Wade," I stick out my hand for him to shake, which he does with much trepidation. "I'm Miss Bartlett."

"Miss Bartlett," he repeats.

This is my great-great grandfather as a kid. Oh-my-God. No, OhmyGod!

"I guess that I don't have to go right away…" I say hopefully. "But I'm afraid that I haven't brought any clothes."

Wade looked thoughtful. "Mother has clothes. Lots and lots of them."

"Well, what would you think about letting me borrow a dress of your mother's, Wade?"

He pondered the question. "I can see. Wait here, please." He turned to go, then whirled around again. "Why _are_ you dressed like that?"

He's adorable. Seriously, adorable. Someone just needs to talk to him.

I shrug. "I wasn't thinking that I'd run into anyone today." That was the truth.

"You talk awfully funny too," Wade remarked, putting his hands on his hips. "You must be a Yankee."

What? Can the kid not hear the Southern accent? I used to be teased mercilessly for it.

"Well, I was born in Texas. Maybe that's why…" I say hesitantly. "My Dad was a real live cowboy in his day. In fact, he rode the rodeo circuit before he married Mom. Do you like cowboys, Wade?"

He shook his head. "I'm not allowed to talk about Texas."

"Why not?"

"Mother says."

Ah. Mothers.

"Well, you can talk about anything you want with me. I won't tell anyone."

"Really?" His brown eyes are literally sparkling with happiness. The kid is seriously deprived - if he had shown up in my class, I would have pegged him for a kid with serious home issues without even knowing anything about his family.

"So, Wade," I begin. "You live with your Mother and stepfather, eh?"

He nods. "Uncle Rhett."

"Do you like Uncle Rhett?"

He nods again, this time more emphatically.

"So, your Dad's passed away?"

"He's dead," Wade says dully.

"I'm sorry."

"Its fine." He says it so nonchalantly, it hurts. I wrote a seminar paper on grief in the Victorian Era once, and Wade proves my case exactly. Mourning for him is a ritual that has to be followed to the extreme; however, grief as we would think of it would be considered supremely self-indulgent. So when Wade expresses grief for the father he never knew, he's probably met with rebuke.

"What was he like, your Dad?"

"I don't know," he shrugs. "I never knew him."

"I bet he was a good-looking man," I wink at Wade. "He had a good-looking son."

The complement is lost on the poor kid.

"Mist' Wade!" a loud black woman's voice carries out over the garden. "Mist' Wade! You'z a bad chile! Ah's gwine whup you when Ah finds you! Mist' Wade!"

"Mammy." Wade says, moving his feet. "I'll be back."

"Take your time," I say.

"I'll be back!"

He disappears into the house and I walk back towards the carriage house, wanting to investigate it further. I open the door, walk into the building and shut the door quietly behind me. It's so quiet, as though time itself is stopping - does that make sense?

I blink.

Twice.

I'm still here.

What had I expected, to show up in the present? I must confess to have assumed that I had discovered some sort of 'wrinkle' in time, to quote a phrase. You know, a very specific window from my time into theirs. Strangely, however, I felt no sensation of having gone anywhere at all.

**. . . **

"I saw her! I saw her, Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! She's there!" Bonnie Blue Butler ran toward the house and her older brother.

"Bonnie!" Wade said, "You can't tell them. Promise. Promise not to tell."

"Why not?" Bonnie put her tiny hands on her hips. "I saw the woman and you did too. She was dressed like a boy. Daddy will invite her in for tea."

"No, Bonnie. It's complicated. I used to see her too. Especially before you were born. I thought that she was some kind of ghost or something. But she's not real, Bonnie!"

"She is too real! You see her and I see her."

Wade shook his head. "I thought that I spoke to her once. She asked me to bring her a dress of Mother's. And I did, but when I returned to the place where we had spoken, she was gone. I left the dress in the carriage house, and when I went back the next day, it too was gone. I'm telling you, Bonnie, its best not to go down there. Promise me you won't?"

"Alright." The little girl held her brother's hand. "Can we go see Mr. Butler then?"

"Very well."

**. . . **

The medium placed her hands on the door of the carriage house. "There's a strange energy in this place. I've never felt anything like it. I've never even heard of anything like it before."

"What the hell is this, Mrs. C?" Nate Andrews addressed Victoria's grandmother, who was wringing her hands worriedly.

"I've been saying this for years, and Vicky is the only person who gave a damn about what I had to say. So I called Adria here."

"Vicky's friend from college-" the medium reminded Nate.

"I remember you," he interjected. "You were both all into the weird, New-Agey psychic mumbo jumbo."

She ignored him.

"Someone not of the family was here. Someone broke in." Her eyes rested on Nate's.

"Alright, I might have wanted to take a look around," Nate snapped defensively. "You know, its not like I messed anything up on purpose. Besides, you have no proof whatsoever that Vicky actually went anywhere but home."

"She does not go anywhere without her phone," her Grandma stated. "Not anywhere. It was left on the porch, along with her purse."

"So, what you're saying is that we should call the cops?"

"No," Adria Kimball said, shaking her head. "This cannot be solved by police. This is about a portal."

"A portal?"

"A portal to the other side, the spirit world, beyond - whatever you want to call it. This sort of thing can happen when someone attempts some sort of ritual, a Ouija, any kind of séance…"

"This is crazy."

"You know, I have clients tell me that all the time. They think that they can handle things on their own. They always call back."

"Well that's just great - so how do we get her back?"

"We wait," the medium said. "We wait, and we hope that nothing from the spirit world follows her back."

Nate laughed nervously. "What happens then?"

"Things would get awfully bad…"


	4. The Link

**Chapter 4**: _The Link_

I have discovered something remarkable about the late 1860's - no one locks the doors of their carriages. I suppose crime has increased considerably since then.

But I needed to change into the dress that Wade had left for me. I lucked out. It fit perfectly with no corset…although it was clearly made for someone with a B-cup. Bless her…Hopefully she wouldn't notice the dress if I ran into her…Surely she had plenty.

If only I could get by without undergarments. Okay, I'm _wearing_ undergarments. Modern ones. Little pink thong and strapless bra. That should go over nicely if someone looks underneath the voluminous skirt. The bustle hasn't quite been popularized yet, I suppose, but still, it's a little higher than I might have wished, and doesn't quite cover my Birkenstocks.

I lowered the window covering of the carriage and then pressed back against the seat cushion, concealing myself from passersby in the dark shadows. Outside, the carriage lanterns were glowing in the darkness, their soft halos of light just reaching the stage door of the theater.

_Come now, I know you're in there. Show yourself._ I'm shifting around anxiously, fearful that any minute the driver is going to return and take me to God-knows-where.

I sighed again and eagerly leaned closer to the open window. The driver of the carriage next to the one I had commandeered was muttering to the horses, and the sound from the street echoed off the outer walls of the theater. I could feel my pulse quickening as the departure of actors and patrons grew steadily.

Suddenly, the stage door was closed and remained that way for several minutes. I was getting more and more impatient. Kenzie was going to be hungry. _I _was hungry.

As the moments continued to pass, I could feel my stomach churning and emitting loud growling sounds, and after a minute more, the backs of my eyes began to sting. _Shit!_ Allergies. Spectacular.

_No, no_. _They have to be here_. _They must be. They will be_. Someone has to know something about that carriage house…someone in my family. My long since dead family. They had to be at this play with all the society folks.

Lord, I didn't have the time to look anywhere else! The play had closed tonight, according to the program I had found along the side of the street.

Precious time was slipping away. My stint in the past was evaporating before my very eyes.

Alright. Here goes nothing.

I feel like I'm going to pass out. I set an unsteady hand on the latch and fling the carriage door open. Lifting the voluminous silk skirts to my knees, I jump down to the pavers and ran towards the stage door.

I reach it, but just as it was opened from the inside. Suddenly, I can feel my head exploding with pain. Flashes of light blot out all trace of my vision. And then, everything goes black...

**. . . **

A deep voice cut into my consciousness, rousing me from the cocoon of darkness that had obscured my vision. I could feel someone lifting me, and then someone shouting something about finding Doctor Meade, whoever he was.

I open my eyes wide enough to see a dark silhouette of a large man leaning over me.

I blinked. Something about his voice was familiar. He leaned back then, just enough that a flicker of light touched his face.

I could hear myself gasping aloud at the sight of him.

He ran his hands through his thick black hair and pushed the offending stand away from his eyes. Black eyes. I had seen those eyes before. A cleft marked the center of his chin, and his angular jaw was defined by a sprinkling of stubble. His full, Italian lips were parted in a relieved smile.

My stomach growled. Loud enough for him to hear.

He started laughing.

"It's _you_," I whisper softly. "Peter? What the hell are you doing here?"

He squirmed, as though uneasy, and glanced around him.

"Peter di Franco. Pete? It's me, Vicky. You know me, don't you? I've not gone completely crazy?"

He answered in the affirmative with a brief nod, then looked immediately upward. I followed his eyes, and found the tall male legs which turned into a tall male torso and ended with an inquisitive looking face. His eyes are steely grey, his hair blondish-brown and his long sideburns are very neatly trimmed, accenting his high cheekbones and angular jaw.

"Miss Bartlett. What a pleasure it is to see you again." Peter grinned over his shoulder. "Thank you for your assistance, sir. I must say, I'd thought never to lay eyes on this young lady again. She's from New York; round the same part as me. Suppose you can tell by her attire, or lack thereof. Surely you've not been drinking, Victoria, dear. Tsk, tsk, such dishabille!"

I glare at him and rub my eyes. Drinking? I wish.

The poor man looks bewildered, unsure of what to do next. His jaw slackened as he glanced back toward another waiting carriage, where three well dressed ladies were standing ramrod still.

"Well, as long as the young lady is alright," the man above Peter looks remiss about turning me over to him - or maybe leaving him alone with me - I'm not certain which.

"Thank you, Mr. Wilkes. Much obliged." Peter quips.

Wilkes! I've heard that name before.

Mr. Wilkes doesn't seem to be acquainted with Peter, but he bobs his head in cordiality and returns to the three waiting women. From my vantage point, there are two young, one older. I hear something about someone needing smelling salts. They're probably talking about me.

No thank you, I want to say - just a drink!

"Sorry about that," Peter said after Mr. Wilkes's carriage had gone on its way. "Had to say something. Can't just tell these people you're in from 2011, you know."

"Well, I've not been drinking yet, but I wouldn't turn down a martini." I smile up at him. Apparently I shouldn't make jokes. He's not smiling.

"We need to get you off the street. Who lent you the dress, by the way?"

"My great-great-great grandmother. Well, her son. But it belongs to her."

"Scarlett?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Do you…know her?"

"Only in passing. I'll meet her officially in December of 1873. You look a little shocked, Vicky, do you need to sit down?"

"I need a vodka gimlet straight up, but that's besides the point. Okay. Here's the deal. I must have fallen and hit my head. I probably am sitting in Grandma's carriage house bleeding profusely from the head. I'm surprised you're in my dream and not Nate, but-"

He smirks.

"Don't tell me you're still seeing Nate Andrews."

"As a matter of fact I am. Now, since this is my dream, why don't you direct me to the nearest bar?"

"You'd have to go to the saloon for that. But I don't think you want to do that."

"Want to bet?"

"Be my guest. Just know that you're wearing an extremely, er, questionable garment for the day. That style's not actually going to be popularized until next year. To make things worse, you have no proper undergarments and all of your charms are, shall we call them - visible? And just to complete the ensemble, let us not forget your Birkenstocks. Charming, Vicky. Charming."

"I was going for _vintage Hollywood_. No good?"

"Sorry, but no. Look, if you want to stay in this moment for a couple days, I'll take you to the dressmaker tomorrow and buy you some clothes that fit."

"What do you mean, _if _I want to stay in this moment? I'm hungry. I need to feed my dog. I want to go to _my _moment. Could you direct me, please?"

"Not quite yet. We need to go over a few things first, now that you're here."

"Now that I'm…here? In which corner of my imagination does _here _reside, exactly?

"The fair city of Atlanta," he says sarcastically. "C'mon, here's a café where we can eat discreetly."

"Discreetly, huh? Who are we hiding from?"

He doesn't answer, just grabs my arm and drags me across the street. The place is empty save for a few stragglers that have obviously had one beer too many. Some things never change. The barman looks up from whatever he's doing to appraise us. Peter picks a table at the very back, but I'm sure the man noticed my ill-fitting attire.

"What'll you have, suh?" the man addresses him.

Peter answers, "Two shots of your best whiskey. Doubles if you have 'em."

The man obliges, flashing me a dubious glance.

"Yes, my dear Victoria. We can safely assume that our friendly bartender thinks you fit for nothing but the sporting house."

"That's nice of him."

"Not his fault you forgot your chemise."

"That's probably a very scandalous statement this day and age. He should see my next door neighbor…she's good to remember a bra!"

He raises his eyebrow. "DiDi? With the double D's? I remember her."

"She's hard to forget."

"You still have your dog?"

"Of course. I'd show you a picture, but my phone's on Grandma's front porch."

"I'm sure she hasn't changed that much. Nate still allergic?"

"Yeah. Well, he's had some success with allergy shots, poor guy…He still can't really be around her."

"You know, Victoria, I've always wondered how a young woman who loves dogs as much as you do tolerates a man in your life that abhors them."

"He's allergic! He breaks out in hives!"

"Sure. Or perhaps it's a manifestation of his lack of commitment. Unless…I've missed something in the past two years?"

"We're not engaged, if that's what you're getting at. Not that it's any of your business if we were or not."

He makes a choking noise and has to cough to clear his throat.

"I apologize. Now that we've exchanged pleasantries, let's discuss the matter at hand."

"Yes, let's."

"I would assume that, despite your attempts to dismiss this afternoon's happenings as a dream, you're beginning to recognize that it is quite real? You're in a real bar drinking real whiskey with a real man."

He emphasized that last "real".

"That's a relief. So, I'm not dreaming. Have I lost my mind?"

"Nope. You're as sane as I am."

"Comforting. I think…"

"You've already realized that the carriage house is the avenue by which you were transported here, haven't you?"

I nod in assent.

"It was built in 1845, when Atlanta was still Terminus. There was a voodoo priestess who worked in the house which previously stood on that lot. She was Mammy to the three orphaned Delaney children, a boy and two girls…all of whom ended up dead under her care. The war came, the Delaney's all died out, and the house was shelled. The carriage house was completely unscathed. Rhett Butler bought the lot in 1868, and didn't bother tearing it down since it was already in immaculate shape. Unfortunately for him, he had no idea what he had bought."

"And you do?"

"I do. I got to see firsthand."

"Firsthand?"

"Rhett brought me to Atlanta after he bought the place to watch it go up, see my Ma and the like. I, being of the curious nature, decided to investigate the structure while he was going over plans for the rest of the house with the builders."

"You-"

"Just a minute, Vicky, I'll take questions after I'm done. Anyway, I shut the door and snooped around for a bit and opened it to a booming street with motorcars. I was terrified. Then I saw them: Rhett, his wife, his children….and I looked around for awhile, made some inquiries. I had been promised a substantial pension, a good living. What did I have? Nothing. I was dead. Shot in the head at age twenty-seven. How's that for fair, Vicky dear? So for the last several years, I've been periodically traveling forward…I have it down to an art by now. I have acquaintances in every year. You were one of my more fascinating ones. Particularly because I knew that you would be able to travel too, as I had done. You've already made a few stops today, if I'm not mistaken. "

"You're starting to scare me. What do you mean, the last several years?"

"The year at present is 1871, Vicky. I've been at this, or at this moment, I suppose I should say, I will be doing this, until 1873. If I wait too much longer, that is, until 1874, I'm afraid that I will have no more time."

"You mean…?"

"I die, Victoria. I die. January 1, 1874. Unless I prevent it."

"And how…how do you prevent it?"

"I thought that I had prevented it. I convinced Rhett that he had to go…"

"To go?"

He lowers his eyes.

"Its not important. Not now. But back to you, Victoria. I knew you were coming long before you showed up."

"And I take it that was your reason for disappearing?"

"Disappearing? I worked there for four months, Vicky. That's the longest I've ever remained in a location, if you were interested. It was hell to make up a background story that'd convince you."

"So you aren't _really _a Yankees fan?"

"I could care less about baseball. Although it always amused me how passionate your darling Nate was about his Red Sox."

"So, what do I have to do with this? It sounds like your issue is with Rhett. We're not even technically related."

"Haven't you ever wondered why your family history is so scattered? So…inconsistent?"

"Because of the state archives fire!"

He studies me, carefully and distinctly.

"That was me. Trying to prevent you coming."

"What are you talking about?"

"Didn't you ever wonder why we got along so well? Why you liked me so much better than Nate, although the thought of cheating on him chafed your sense of moral superiority?"

"I did not-"

"You did. You're very prudish, Victoria, for all of your modern sensibilities. You're an old soul. You belong here just as much as there."

"Listen to me. I don't know who you think you are, but I do not like the way this conversation is going!"

"You have to believe me, Vicky. Trust me when I tell you that your visit here must go an absolutely certain way. Otherwise, it's all been for nothing!"

Nate's dire words. _An axe-murderer in your carriage house._

"What has? You're trying to destroy my family in order to save yourself."

"Now Vicky, be reasonable. You don't know them, what they're like."

"But I do? Obviously I do, or you wouldn't be so frightened of what I can do."

"You can save me. You said once that you loved me, and I replied that you'd have the opportunity to prove it to me? This is it, Victoria."

I sit there, openmouthed, thinking that any moment he's going to pull out a gun.

"What is the significance of September 21?"

He smiles. "I thought you'd begin to connect the dots."

"Nate did, not me."

"Ah. He's more astute than I gave him credit for. September 21, 1873. That's the date your family members tend to ruin my plans. Wade Hampton. His son and grandson. Your grandmother, Miss Melly. She's been peeking in since she was eleven. You were the first one who really understood, though. Your training helped, and your lack of fear."

"Listen here, I don't like how this is sounding. I want to go home. Now. My grandma and Nate are going to be looking for me and what happens if they go in after me, huh?"

He smirks. "They won't. You're on your own, Victoria Bartlett. And believe me, you're much safer with me than on your own. Your Emory degree won't really count for much in this part of town."

I eye the door, and think about how quickly I can run. He sits back in his chair, confident that I have been won over, and I act. I throw the contents of my shot glass in his face, which startles him. He stands up, letting out a litany of profanity. And then I knee him, Birkenstocks and all - right in the groin. He's doubled over in pain, which gives me a second to bolt. Out the door, on the grey dim streets. All alone. God help me.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: Dearest Readers All, I've been diligently working on the RBA, and went to save my work in progress when I happened upon my draft for this chapter of "Somewhere In Time". It completely slipped my mind that I have been lax in updating (occupational hazard when one has as many documents on one's computer as I do). So, for my wonderful RBA readers, don't fret; now that school is out for the semester, I have plenty of time to write. I'll shoot for posting the next chapter of RBA by the weekend. I apologize for the delay in this story, but as it's one I'm excited about developing further, I would LOVE to hear what you guys think. So, comment away! Happy start to the Holidays! <strong>


End file.
